


Fraternal Love (Does Not Equal What I feel For You.)

by AStupidUserName420



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: First Time, French Revolution, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, way too many sexy fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStupidUserName420/pseuds/AStupidUserName420
Summary: *NSFWLouis Antoine Saint-Just is not attracted to Maximilien Robespierre. He isn’t, he just admires him greatly. He might also have a fixation on the man’s calves, but who wouldn’t? He might also very secretly, want to push Maxime down on to the table and tear his clothing apart with his teeth and fuck him till he can’t walk.See? It’s all very fraternal.





	1. Antoine wants the D. (The Declaration of the Rights of Man)

**Author's Note:**

> As always my work is ahistorical and ridiculous as fuck. This serves no point other than to give dear Antoine blueballs and get Maxime laid. Sorry everyone, but not really.   
> P.S. I don’t actually know what an Artoise accent sounds like in comparison to the rest of France. If you’re francophone and you know, please leave me a note!   
> P.P.S My ongoing battle against tenses continues. I think I finally got everything to present, but just kick me if you find any. Finally, the “lube” they use could have potentially existed. I looked it up. So, there.   
> This is for cantgetoversns, cause they’re awesome!

Since moving to Paris, (this time leaving the family silver behind) Antoine has rediscovered several great joys he’d had originally here. The capital is like nowhere else in France, nowhere else is the world. It is the capital of Europe, cradle and nursery of all of the greatest philosophers, and now of the Republic.

Even while he is making his way quickly to meet with the Committee as dark fell over the city, he still found a sense of wonder in the slow moving and sensual Seine. Most of the citizenry of the city has disappeared, back into their homes and hovels for the night. Carriages passed by, driven by hard working men, and pulled by hard working horses. Shops locked, and Antoine notes that many bakeries still had ‘NO BREAD’ signs on their doors. He frowns.

As always there is more to do, more to keep the Republic running, more infrastructure to put into place for the people to enjoy life as they were meant to. More, more, more. He takes a deep breath and focuses. Tonight, despite Couthon still being absent, they would need to discuss better measures for the flour shortage and the quickly out-of-hand situation in the south and east… Perhaps Couthon has sent word of his progress?

As deep in thought as he is, Antoine is not paying attention to where he was walking, and as he hurries up the last block, in the dim light, he runs straight into another person.

Staggering, Antoine just manages to keep his footing. He locks eyes with the person he nearly trampled and felt a hot flush threatened his pale cheeks.

“Citizen Robespierre!”

Robespierre, having avoided the ground and kept his portfolio, glances up at him, expression unreadable. Antoine manages to avoid wincing, embarrassed by his clumsiness, but his mouth twisted into a sheepish expression.

“Citizen Saint-Just.” Robespierre’s Artoise accent gave his name a sharper pronunciation, nearly English-like. He stands straight, absently brushing a hand over his coat to rid it of the brick dust.  “Making your way to the Committee, I assume?”

This time Antoine really did wince at the older deputy’s dry tone.

“Oui.”

He thinks he sees Robespierre’s mouth twitch, and he gestures to the door, grabbing at the handle to pull it open. The shorter man nods his head gratefully, and they enter together.

The evening settle velvet like over the building, while the men inside bit off terse discussions with a muttered and resentful, “of course, citizen”, “for the Republic”, “the war, of course citizen”. This was not to say that nothing was accomplished. Even as they inched along, it was still progress. It was the same way a man with a broken leg drags himself along, knowing that if he stops it means his death.

Antoine threw his head back, sitting erect in his chair and his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He _feels_ like he’s dragging himself through the mud. Next to him Robespierre is in heated argument with Collot, who is red faced and furious across from them.

“You go too far, citizen,” Robespierre says lowly, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table.

“And this Committee does not go far enough! Lyons is still in revolt!” Collot snarls.

“The traitors within Lyons will be brought to heel,” Fouche says idly.

Both Robespierre and Antoine whip around to look at him. Fouche levels a blank stare back at them. A stifling silence engulfs the room.

That is how the evening ends, in a hostile silence. The members of the committee collect their papers and file out.

Except for Robespierre.

Antoine takes his time, ordering his papers just _so_ and waits for Collot to shut the door. Footsteps slowly drew away.

“Citizen Robespierre?” Antoine tries to draw the man out of his thoughts. He looks like he is far away, two fingers pressed to his temple and mouth fixed in a stiff unhappy line.

Robespierre glances over at him and Antoine just catches how the under eyelid of his right eye twitched. He wonders if that was brought on with stress or if Robespierre had always had that.

“It’s fine, Citizen Saint-Just. I just,” he takes off his glasses and polished them with a scrap of cotton before replacing them. “I do not like Citizen Fouche. I do not trust him.”

Antoine stares at him, hoping that his amazement was well concealed. The message was clear. _I do not trust him, but I trust_ you.

“Oui, Robespierre. I understand,” Antoine murmurs. He places his hand over his heart and nodded, before finally gathering his papers and with some dignity, fleeing. He can feel Robespierre’s sea-green eyes on him all the way out into the street.

XXX

_He doesn’t know how he’s here. It doesn’t really matter, however. He doesn’t really care that much._

_The hazy figure in his arms arches up and whispers, “Antoine,_ _s'il vous plaît?_ _Kiss me.”_

_He does, pressing against lips that have changed the world and everything in it. They’re warm and perfect under his, molding to him mouth until they’re fused, one mouth that doesn’t need words to communicate. They’re speaking a far older language now. One of companionship, trust, respect. His hands move over skin he’s only imagined, a pale and freckled back, feeling the bones of the spine with his thumbs. Antoine wants to stay like this forever, with his hands buried in soft hair and his mouth on Maximilien Robespierre’s._

XXX

Antoine woke reluctantly, the harsh sunlight streaming through his window. He’d made it to his bed, somehow. He doesn’t remember. It doesn’t really matter, however.

Antoine works through his grooming and dressing with automatic hands, his mind far away, almost as if he is still asleep. When he brushes his hair, he pauses for just a moment and meet his own gaze in the looking glass.

_Did I really dream of fucking- no,_ making love _to Robespierre?_

He touches his lips, fingertips cold and calloused. His thumb smooths over the bottom lip, too generously described as ‘sensual’. He did dream of kissing Robespierre with these lips. He dreamed of running his hands along his spine, down to pull his to hips to meet him. Dreamt of a masculine hardness meeting his own, in the way of the Greeks.

Antoine curses. He finishes yanking his curls into order. He takes deep breathes and focuses on the stinging rather than his excitement pressing against his leg in his trousers.

_He’s fucked._

XXX 

Antoine attends the Assembly. He sits close to the floor, arranging his features into closed off expression, crossing his arms over his lap and straightening his shoulders. He doesn’t turn his head when Augustin passes him or when a scrap of green striped silk flashes by.

He does swallow heavily when Robespierre sits next to him, cooing a soft “Bonjour, citoyen.” Antoine nods, once, not meeting his eyes. He has the irrational fear that if he looks into Robespierre’s grey-green eyes, then he’ll see the images that feel like they’ve been seared to the inside of Antoine’s eyelids.

Antoine hears the speakers without listening to them. He reacts automatically, clapping, hissing, and sitting there stoically while with every movement he brushes his arm along Robespierre’s.

_The imaginary feeling of his hips in his hands, a layer of warm flesh over sharp hipbones. His thumbs pressing into the hollows of them, while he ran his tongue up Robespierre’s chest, tasting salt and soap. Thin fingers grab at his shoulders and there’s moaning in his ear._

Antoine swallows dryly, glancing at Robespierre out of the corner of his eye. The man seems entirely involved in watching, his sharp green eyes on the center.

He tries to distance himself, or distract himself, and lets his eyes trail to the floor. However this plan is also thwarted because his gaze lands on Robespierre’s feet and stockings. As he watches Robespierre crosses his legs and Antoine’s eyes trace over the delicate bones that are barely outlined in the white silk, up the muscular swell of his calf, and just at where his breeches start. They don’t sit quite tight to the skin and Antoine has the sudden vivid vision of _reaching down and running his finger under the hem, grasping at his knees and pulling them apart to slide his body into the space between them, pressing them together-_

“Saint-Just?”

Antoine starts so badly that Robespierre flinches back, blinking at him in bewilderment. He tries to bring his focus back to reality, not to his increasingly bizarre and perverted fantasies.

“Are you alright?” Robespierre asks softly. Before Antoine can answer, literally the last person he wants to see approaches the bench where they’re sitting.

“M-Maxime!” Next to him Robespierre stiffens ever so slightly.

“Camille, bonjour.”

Camille stands in front of them, idly twirling a quill between his fingers. His eyes dart back and forth between them. Antoine clenches his jaw and finds this the perfect way to escape. He stands abruptly, making Camille step back.

“I’ll see you this evening, citoyen. Desmoulins.” He brushes his sleeve off, avoiding their eyes, and walks away.

“What was _that_?” He hears Camille ask as he finds himself, once again, fleeing. He doesn’t hear if Robespierre responds.

XXX

Over the next month, much to Antoine’s distress, his _attraction_ to Max- Robespierre does not lessen but grows exponentially. Now it seems like everything reminds him of Robespierre in one way or another.

The sound of birds, the smell of oranges, the color green. Silk, cotton, powder. Ink on fingers, light freckles, and the soft coo of the Artoise region accent.

Antoine functions, moves from day to day, and finds a way to be around Robespierre all while fighting the furious desire to push him down on the table and ravish him with his mouth and hands.

As spring bleeds into summer, Antoine somehow finds himself in an _impossible_ situation.

Robespierre is in his rooms on Gaillon Street. There are so many ways this can go terribly that Antoine would need Carnot to even begin the calculations.

How they ended up in Antoine’s rooms feels like hazy blur, mostly because he’s begun to rely on the Duplay household to keep him sober in the face of the person he desires. With such a busy household: three daughters, a son, the workmen and a door that didn’t lock, Antoine had been more or less forced to keep his mind on business.

Although that hasn’t stopped more than a few of his indiscreet dreams of featuring the small mansard room heavily. He’s become unable to look at Robespierre’s desk for fear of embarrassing himself immensely. The bed that still has Citoyenne Duplay’s dress as a cover is even worse.

On the one hand Antoine understands. He is young, and at an age when many are courting or getting married or committing numerous indiscretions. Under the Ancient Regime it was a near given for all kinds of disgusting promiscuity among the nobility. He’s heard about Danton’s bastard, out in the countryside and the weekly rumors that revolve around Desmoulins.

On the other…

Maxime, Robespierre. The Incorruptible.

He’s cheered by a veritable herd of women at every Jacobin meeting, and at the Assembly. He’s always well turned, impeccably dressed, clean, and gentle. Antoine cannot imagine _him_ committing indiscretions, no matter his age.

Outside of the inappropriateness of it all, it’s impossible to even dream that he’d turn his sharp green gaze on Antoine in such a vulgar manner.

None of this stops Antoine’s heart from jumping at every tiny movement that Robespierre makes, shifting in the chair opposite, tilting his head one way or another to catch the light, the quiet hums he makes when considering a thorny bit of argument for his speeches. His throat is dry and it takes every ounce of will power Antoine has to not douse himself in water from the pitcher next to bed.

He shifts uneasily in his chair, trying to think of the least beguiling things he can imagine: Danton naked and drunk, Marat in his bathtub, Camille Desmoulins in general. However every time he lifts his head he sees a vision in brown silk and careful power. Robespierre has recently been sick and his skin is paler than the moon, and lends itself to an air of unearthly vulnerability and marble delicacy. Robespierre stretches his neck slightly with a nearly silent groan.

_He moans when Antoine mouths along his neck, leaving small red marks where Antoine puts his teeth to flesh. When he arches their bodies meet in a slick heat that does nothing to cool his ardor. Antoine pins his eager hips to the bed so he can kiss his way down, down, down. “Ah, ah, ah Antoine!”_

“Saint-Just?”

Antoine’s eyes widen and he flushes as he realizes he must have completely drifted off. Robespierre is staring at him in bewilderment.

“Apologies, Robespierre. I’m just,” _unbearably aroused by you_ “tired,” Antoine says quietly, looking down. A large splotch of ink has marked where he’d held his quill still. Antoine scowls.

“Saint-Just, I don’t want to cause offense but, are you entirely well?” Robespierre asks frankly, looking concerned. “You’ve been drifting off more and more often.”

Antoine doesn’t know how to answer so he remains silent.

What can he say?

“I’m sorry Robespierre but every time I look at you I want you naked and in my bed. I want to lick your neck and kiss your chest like we’re newly wedded and I can’t keep my hands off of you. I think about it all the time, in the Committee, at the Assembly, in bed, at your home. When Danton gets up to pontificate, the way I tune him out by imagining sodomizing you, or sucking you off. I love to imagine you bucking your hips under me and begging me to get you off or shouting my name. I hope this explains my distraction.”

_I…have simply been tired. As I said._

Robespierre is looking at him like he’s lost his mind, pale pink lips slightly open and eyes wide behind his glasses.

“I-I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Antoine blinks. “I said I was tired?”

Robespierre lets out a high pitched, slightly panicked giggle. He’s flushed pink. “I-I think you said something about wanting to sodomize me?”

Antoine considers the last few moments and pales in the sudden realization. He freezes, too stunned by the realization that he could be that idiotic to move.

“I-I-I-” He stutters out, all of his famed eloquence gone. Robespierre is still staring at him like he’s never seen Antoine properly before. And why not? Antoine just admitted to wanting to assault his person in graphic detail. “I, can explain?”

Robespierre looks at him expectantly.

Antoine stays silent for a moment, thinking hard. Is there any possible way to talk himself out this? Finally he sighs and throws down his quill in aggravation.

“I…cannot explain. Je suis désolé.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Robespierre still flushed pink and Antoine beginning to burn.

“I think I should go,” Robespierre finally says slowly, collecting his papers. Antoine nods miserably. It’s silent except for the shuffling of paper and the click of his shoes on the floors.

Brount rises to his paws to stand next to his master, staring up at him.

“Antoine?” Robespierre’s voice is very quiet and it takes all of Antoine’s will power to lift his head and look at him.

“Oui?”

Robespierre’s eyes are very soft and wide behind his glasses. “I don’t- You’re still- I mean to say that, th-this doesn’t change my esteem in you.”

Antoine nods weakly and Robespierre escapes, the door snapping shut behind him.

The next day Antoine requests and is assigned to go to the northern army with Phillipe.

XXX

If he somehow thought that getting away from Paris and therefore Robespierre would help, Antoine would have found himself grievously mistaken. If anything, it has now become worse because Phillipe has no shame is describing his courtship with Babet.

“I swear Antoine, Babet’s lips are softer than silk. I could kiss her for hours!”

“Wonderful,” Antoine growls, slumping down deeper into his saddle. He’s had to listen to this for days now. That or Phillipe hinting at wanting Antoine to start courting his sister, Henriette. Antoine nearly laughs in despair.

_I’m sorry Phillipe but I can’t see to your sister because I want our mutual friend and colleague Robespierre in my bed instead. Please send her my deepest regrets!_  

…

“We were in the park and beneath the trees she looked just as one of Muses of Greece. You would not believe what she sounds like when I kiss her-”

Antoine silences him over their dinner with a dark look.

He’s heard from Augustin that Maximilien used to be in a poetry club in Arras that involved lounging in parks under oak trees and drinking summer wines. He can see it vividly in his mind’s eye: A Maximilien just older than himself, with that charmingly coy smile and languorously sprawled in the shade surrounded by other young men, like Bacchus. Sometimes he has flowers tucked into his wig.

He didn’t know one could feel both aroused and furious at the same time.   

…

“Ahh Elizabeth…”

Would it be too dramatic of Antoine to smother Phillipe? He turns over in his cot and pulls his coat over his head to dampen the sound of his sighs.

_Maximilien moaned softly. His fingers dug into Antoine’s shoulders, and he arched back into the pillows. Antoine rocked his hips, thrusting in and out of the delightfully tight body under his, panting hard. His lover’s body was flushed and shimmering in the moonlight. He leaned down and kisses him, mouths melding together, tongues tangling and rubbing. Maximilien brakes the kiss to gasp and groan._

_“Antoine! Please, please!”_

_He growls in response, moving faster just to hear Maxime cry out. Precariously balancing on one hand, he reaches between their bodies and grasps at the older man’s cock._

_“Antoine!”_

“Antoine?”

He comes awake all once, coat dropping off his head as he looks around. The morning light is coming through the tent. Phillipe looks at him curiously.

“Come on, get up. We have a meeting with the captain.”

Beyond words, Antoine waves at him, showing that he heard before he collapses back. He’s hard and throbbing under the blanket but the chances of taking care of it are basically nil. He has to get up and be cold and stern with the captains who are giving their men too little food and too much wine. He has to find a way to shove whatever fixation he’s developed aside and concentrate on the mission, on the nation.

Antoine spends the day snapping at nearly everyone until both the captains and the men are, if not aware of their duty to the Republic, terrified of Louis Antoine Saint-Just.

He fires off brisk letters to the Committee to report the situation and he’s nearly ready to go to bed when Phillipe puts a final paper down in front of him.

“This one goes to Robespierre. He’ll want to hear from you.”

Antoine’s glare could incinerate the entire Prussian force as he looks at the paper. Phillipe has already written the update, it just requires a post script.

Antoine’s quill hovers over the paper for an agonizingly long time. What does he say? What can he say?

_I’m being driven insane by you. When I’m with you I burn and when I’m away its worse. You’re presence or lack thereof makes me want to crawl out of my skin._

“I embrace you, my friend,” he mutters under his breath, finishing the statement. He stares at the words. _Would that I could._ He folds the letter and carefully seals it, then it sets it on the pile to be delivered back to Paris tomorrow.

Antoine glances over at Phillipe, and found his friend peacefully asleep.

He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. What on earth is happening to him?

XXX

Days pass with syrupy slowness. Antoine alternates between despondency and feeling too tight for his skin with his constant simmering arousal.

He has to keep writing letters back to Paris, and with everyone he writes to Robespierre, he ends it with “I embrace you, my friend.” It’s a tiny comma in the manuscript he could write to the older man to describe his feelings.

One night after dinner, and after Phillipe has gone to bed, snoring and murmuring Babet’s name, Antoine begins to write.

_Dear M. Robespierre,_

_I fear I left Paris with too much haste, I wish I had more accurately explained myself to you. While it’s true I do desire you carnally I also respect you great deal and I don’t want you to misunderstand._

_…_

_My dearest Robespierre, since reading your speeches that you presented at Versailles you’ve inspired me, as a man of virtue and a civic leader. You reaffirm my belief that the Republic will survive us. I truly…adore you._

_…_

_You and your damnably tight stockings! I desire to tear them off of you and kiss my way up your legs before I take your cock in my mouth. I want to hear what you sound like when you’re trying to be discreet but needing to say my name. I want to feel your bare skin against mine and discover what you are under the layers of silk and cotton. I want to know you as I have never known another._

_…_

_~~Do you, could you, I need to know, I think I might~~ _

_Robespierre, Maximilien, you torment me. Do you feel a fraction of what I feel for you?_

_Yours,_

_Antoine Saint-Just._

…

Antoine looks down at the pages he’d covered, the writing frantic and his script suffering as a result. And Desmoulin’s has pointed out in the past, Antoine’s handwriting leaves something to be desired at the best of times. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He folds the letter and sets it on his trunk. There was no chance in ever sending it but it feels a little better to see his emotions in black and white. Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, Antoine sinks down onto the cot and sleeps deeply.

XXX

He awakes the next morning to Phillipe clattering around as he dresses. Antoine stretches and finds himself relieved that he hadn’t had any unbecoming dreams. He sits up and Phillipe began his morning debrief as Antoine untangles his hair from his earrings. 

“Finally you’re up! The post has already come and gone, and we’ve more orders from the Committee. Oh, I saw that you wrote another letter to Robespierre and made sure it was sent off. There’s fresh bread and coffee too, thank the gods.”

Antoine nods absently, hissing as he pulls at the strands. He should really just cut-

“Wait, what? What letter?” Antoine looks over at Phillipe. He hasn’t written another letter to Robespierre, just the embarrassingly besotted one and that hadn’t been addressed.

“The one on your trunk. I saw the header and thought it looked important so I sealed it and sent it off this morning. Coffee?”

Antoine whips his head around, eyes wide. The letter is indeed absent and likely twenty miles back to Paris right now. His heart pounds in horror.

“Antoine?”

If someone opens it, a spy or traitor, or god help him some member of the Committee… If the Prussians intercept it on its way back… Ghastly visions spin around his head. 

Antoine feels ill, and presses a hand to his mouth.

“Are you alright? You look pale.” Phillipe pats him on the shoulder. “I think you are overwork mon amie. However we have only have a week left on the front, and then I can go back Elizabeth! And you can go back to your beloved Committee.”

It takes everything Antoine has not to be violently sick.

 


	2. Maxime wants the D. (The dick.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion to Antoine's sexual fantasies: the real thing, in the flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the filthiest thing I’ve ever written that didn’t involve BDSM. Yay? I guess this is where I would apologize to the descendants of Robespierre and Saint-Just, IF THEY HAD ANY.  
> My eternal gratitude to cantgetoversns and all of the lovely amazing people who left comments last chapter! Thank you so much!

The trip back to Paris feels like a slow torture. Antoine dreads returning to the capital but finally one evening just before the sun has begun to set, the city comes into view.

Phillipe is ecstatic, and they make their way to the Duplay home immediately. Babet is waiting in the yard and she runs to Phillipe as soon as he is in sight. Antoine, feeling more and more like he is mounting scaffolding, glances up at where Robespierre’s window is.

“He isn’t here,” Eleanor says quietly, seeing where his gaze is. “He’s still with the Committee.”

Antoine nods numbly. He leaves Phillipe to the tender mercies of his lover and her delightful family and walks slowly to the Committee. He’s walking up the last block, his eyes trained on the ground.

“Citoyen!”

He nearly stumbles over his feet and is only kept from the ground by Robespierre grabbing his upper arms. Antoine clumsily steps to close to him, and their feet tangle for a moment.

His heart pounds as he looks down into Robespierre’s eyes, magnified by his glasses. They stay frozen, fronts pressed together, for a moment before Robespierre lets him go and Antoine can step back.

Antoine has no idea what to say, standing frozen in front of Robespierre now. However luckily he doesn’t have to since after he’s finished straightening out his coat, Robespierre looks up at him and says, tonelessly, “I received your letter.”

He stays silent as Robespierre stares at him, examining him from top to bottom. Antoine can hardly imagine a more horrifying situation that this, except maybe the Austrian and Prussian armies marching into Paris with no resistance.

“Well?” Robespierre prompts. Antoine opens his mouth, only to shut it again immediately. He feels his insides twisting violently, and if he tries to speak there’s a chance he’ll be sick all over street. He instead shakes his head.

Robespierre frowns, and grasps his wrist.

“We need to speak, Antoine, may we go to your apartment?”

Antoine swallows and nods numbly, starting to walk down the street towards Hôtel des États-Unis.

XXX

It’s an unbearably silent walk. Robespierre doesn’t say one thing to him, and Antoine hates it, and himself, for different reasons.

He hates the silence because he has nothing to respond to if Robespierre doesn’t give him anything to go off of. Is he furious? Paternally concerned? Humiliated? He only said that he got the letter, not that it wasn’t seen by others.

Antoine hates himself for this loss of control at this critical juncture. He has his life ahead of him, a whole Republic to ensure the safety of when the war is over. And he hates himself because he’s finally pieced together why he just can’t shake this obsession. It seems like it should have been so simple, but it took Antoine so long to realize…

He’s not just helplessly attracted to Maximilien Robespierre, he’s foolishly _in love_ with him. It would be some much simpler if this was something he could pleasure himself to, but now his emotions are all tangled around the man who is walking six inches from his hand and Antoine simply can’t cut through all of it.

They’re less than five minutes from his apartment, and Antoine has no idea how he’s going to tell Robespierre all of this.

They’re walking up the stairs and his heart is pounding in his ears and his whole stomach has inexplicably vanished. He opens the door and his hands are shaking so badly that Robespierre must hear how it rattles in his hand. Antoine walks in and stands in the middle of the room, waiting for the door to close. When it does, Antoine finally turns around to face Robespierre.

Robespierre has removed his hat and coat, laying them on Antoine’s desk. He takes a short hard breath, and looks up at Antoine.

“Now, I’d like to speak to you.” Robespierre meets his eyes squarely. “Did you intend to send a letter that, ah, personal?”

Antoine shakes his head and removes his own hat and jacket. He runs a hand through his hair, still coated in dust from the ride back.

“No, I intended to destroy it! But Phillipe saw it.”

Robespierre’s eyes widen and he pales. “Phillipe read it?!”

“Non, just the header and so he sent it on my behalf,” Antoine corrects him quickly. Robespierre takes a deep breath and places a hand on his heart. Then he looks at him, gaze sharp.

“Antoine, this cannot continue.”

Antoine nods miserably and raises his chin high. He clasps his hands tightly behind his back, and closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath. “Citoyen Robespierre, I will submit to whatever demands you make of me, for this in-”

Antoine stops suddenly because he hears the rustle of fabric and because Robespierre doesn’t seem to be paying any attention on his speech. He opens his eyes and nearly swallows his tongue.

Robespierre is bent over and is in the middle of undoing his shoes, one hand carefully braced on the chair. He looks up at Antoine, an eyebrow raised.

“I know you wanted to, um, _tear my stockings off of me_ , but I rather like this pair, and I don’t want to replace them if you’re too rough.”

Robespierre’s tone is so outrageously practical that for a moment Antoine thinks he must be in the middle of a nervous breakdown and pinches his own wrist.

It hurts.

“I-you- _what_?” Antoine gasps out. Robespierre slowly straightens up, and toes off his shoes. Without them, he’s even shorter.

_Jesus Christ, he’s adorable_.

“I thought we were going to be intimate. That’s what you wanted, non?” Robespierre cocks his head, and he’s beginning to look a little nervous. “I thought that’s why you wrote me the letter, and told me what you thought and look at me like you’re about to eat me.” He fidgets with the lace at his wrists. “Or have I been mistaken?”

Antoine’s mouth snaps closed and he doesn’t have anything to say. His mind has gone blank and it’s all Maximilien Robespierre’s fault. So he does the only thing he has left to do.

In two brisk, almost angry, steps he crosses to Maximilien and wraps his arms around him and kisses him.

Antoine’s mind has been supplying him with fantasies of this moment for months. Will Maximilien be soft and shy, like his nomenclature implies, the uncorrupted? Or will he be just as excited and passionate as he is in the Jacobin club and at the Convention?

There are simply somethings that words couldn’t do justice. There wasn’t a term for how soft Maxime’s lips were beneath his, or the taste of his breath when his mouth opened to Antoine’s tongue. Antoine could have read every word in the French dictionary, consulted Fabre D'Eglantine, read all of the English poets and he still couldn’t have accurately described the sound Maxime made as they pressed against each other from ankles to lips. Antoine’s whole body sinks into the kiss, trying to convey every thought he’s had over the past months about this moment.

When they finally had to break apart, Antoine has lost all of his breath and Maximilien’s eyes are glazed over.

“Oh,” he finally mutters, eyes fluttering. “Oh, my. That was…” He trails off, examining Antoine’s visage. His delicate fingers trace over Antoine’s face, running over his lips, still wet with combined saliva. “Are you very mad at me?” He finishes sheepishly. “It felt like you’d been wanting to do that for a while.”

Antoine leans down and pecks at Maximilien’s lips, flushed a delicate pink. If he’s honest, he didn’t know how he’d gone so long without knowing what it was like to kiss those lips, only that he never wanted to be without them again.

“Non mon cher. I’m not mad. But I won’t be held responsible for my actions if you don’t kiss me again,” Antoine whispers. Maximilien’s answering smile is the most beautiful sunrise he’s ever seen.

With every kiss they share, every gentle exhalation and quiet moan, the embers in Antoine’s belly, banked by fear, are being fanned by adoration. They broke apart again and Antoine’s chest moves like bellows. Maxime’s glasses are fogged up.

“W-we should probably move to the bed, oui?” Maxime says, twisting out of Antoine’s arms slightly. He let him go with a groan. His heart raced at the word “bed”.

“Oui.” Antoine bends down to remove his boots. They’re splattered with mud and caked with dust. He grimaces and sets them aside. When he looks up Maximilien has just finished removing his wig, carding his fingers through his slightly tangled hair.

Antoine realizes he’s never seen his friend’s hair without the powdered wig before and stares openly. His hair is fine, and slightly wavy. In the dim light, it’s a golden brown color, a few shades lighter than Antoine’s own. As he stared a sudden cloud covered the sun and he saw strands of red appear. Antoine has never realized that a human’s hair could be so many beautiful colors before. There’s grey at the temples, a sign of stress and age. When Maxime turns back to him, Antoine also notices that it’s thinning slightly at the front, right over the bridge of his nose.

Maxime smiles sheepishly. “Je suis desole. I know I’m not very,” he gestures to Antoine, who frowns.

“Very what?”

“You know, _handsome_.”

Antoine nearly staggers. “What?” He gasps, affronted. Maximilien raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, have you not seen a mirror?” Maxime teases gently, but is quickly hushed when Antoine pulls him to his chest.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Antoine says harshly. “You’re eyes, and your mouth and your ankles-” He could have rambled like that for an hour but Maxime stops him by kissing his cheek.

“Antoine, hush. You don’t need to flatter me.”

Antoine shakes his head, opening his mouth to insist that he wasn’t, but before he can, Maxime kisses him again. His slender fingers pulls at the clasps of Antoine’s coat and without breaking the kiss, he shrugs out of it.

They sag together, Antoine able to get closer since he removed his shoes. He runs his hands up to Maximilien’s hair, carding his fingers through it, carefully removing the snarls. Maxime hums into his mouth with contentment.

On the one hand Antoine could have stood there for an eternity, with Maxime in his arms, but on the other hand, his arousal is pressed hotly against his thigh, keeping him aware of it.

“Bed?” He whispers when they break apart to take a breath. Maximilien nods, breathless. His hands fly up to his cravat, intending to remove it, but Antoine quickly gasps his wrists.

“Please, I want to.”

Maxime lowers his hands and Antoine takes the ends of the silk in his hands, gently pulling it apart. He unwinds it and reveals the pale, thin skin underneath. He strokes his fingers over the delicate veins, and shivers.

“Antoine?” He blinks and looks into Maximilien’s eyes. Maxime takes his hand and kisses his palm. They took the few short steps to the bed and tumble back onto it. The bed is small and they’re together. Antoine groans, and his fingers fly to the buttons of Maximilien’s waistcoat. They fumble along until he’s managed to undo them all.

Obligingly Maxime sits up and takes it off, carefully laying it at the end of the bed. Antoine lays back and watches as the other man takes off his own shirt. He takes a deep breath when veritable miles of pale skin is revealed. His chest is narrow, and when he bends over to kiss Antoine, he can see the shadow of ribs poking through the skin. Antoine gently touches his shoulders, and smooths his hands down Maxime’s torso. The flesh is warm, breathing, and alive under his fingers. He’s never felt anything so wonderful.

He nearly jumps when Maxime’s hands grasp at his chest, undoing his own waistcoat and cravat. Antoine doesn’t want to rush this, but he’s been thinking on it for so long. He reaches for Maximilien’s culottes, flicking the clasps at his hips apart. He hears the briefest stutter in his breathing. Maxime’s hands slip into his shirt and feel their way across his skin and Antoine is lost.

He lurches up and grasps Maximilien’s shoulders. His shirt and waistcoat are hanging off his shoulders sloppily, but he could be dressed rags or as a sans-culottes or as Mars and it wouldn’t be able to stop him from pushing Maxime down onto the bed and rolling over on top of him. His hands are roaming all over that delicious smooth skin that’s beginning to flush with red. They break apart and Maxime looks up at him with wide eyes and his lips bruised.

“Take your shirt off,” he whispers and Antoine has never undressed so fast. His waistcoat joins Maxime’s at the end of the bed and he throws his shirt in the general direction of his desk. Maximilien makes an amused noise, before Antoine cuts him off by kissing the hollow of his neck. There’s the taste of soap and sweat and Antoine buries his face there.

“Oh!” Maxime’s head goes back, pressing into Antoine’s pillows. His hands clasp at his shoulders, trying to steady himself. “Oh Antoine!”

He leans up and whispers in his ear, “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you to say my name like that?” He nips sharply just to Maxime gasp.

“I’m beginning to guess,” he says dryly. “The letter you wrote, it was full of such _longing_.”

“And I have. I’m ached for you Maximilien. Here, in my bed, thinking of you.” In the sleepy moments between waking and falling asleep, when he was so exhausted he couldn’t sleep, Antoine took himself in hand, and buried his face in his pillow, moaning and panting for his release.

Maximilien looks up at him, his eyes wide. “Really?” He looks to the side. “After your letter, I might have thought about it.”

A fresh wave of heat suffused Antoine’s body. “You, thought of me? When you debauch yourself?” He could nearly see it, and for a moment he teetered on arousal so intense that if Maxime touched his cock right now, he would have come from it instantly.

Maxime blushes. “I’ve _thought_ about it.”

Antoine shakes. “Maximilien, Maxime. I need to take off my culottes,” he says as gravely as he can. He rolls to his side and fumbles with his clasps, fingers tingling.

“Here, Antoine. Let me.” Maxime reaches over and gently moved his hands aside. His delicate fingers flicked them apart and pulled them down, over Antoine’s hips and past his buttocks. He quickly got out of them, pushing them aside.

Now just left in his stockings and small clothes, Antoine feels very light and almost vulnerable. However when he looks at Maxime for a reaction, there’s naked lust on his face, making the green in his eyes almost vanish and his cheeks flush with color. Antoine blushes himself, to be looked at in such a way.

“I’ll take mine off,” Maximilien mutters huskily, undoing his clasps before Antoine can protest or offer his assistance. He watches, feeling almost giddy, as the green silk gets pushed away and even more skin is revealed to his greedy gaze.

Maximilien’s freckles continue all the way down his thighs and there’s a small cluster over his knee, right next to the hem of his stockings. Before Maxime can reach for these, Antoine stops him with a gentle hand on his wrist.

“If I swear to be gentle, can I?” he asks slightly, hoping the teasing covers the shaking in his voice. Maxime blushes but extends his leg, foot delicately pointed out. Antoine takes the hem and slowly peels the silk down, letting his lips follow.

His calves are everything Antoine dreamed, except for the occasional cotton bandage that is wrapped around the muscle. Maximilien coughs.

“I have, ah, ulcers. On my legs. From,” his voice drops to an embarrassed whisper. “From standing on tip-toe at the tribune.”

Antoine is helplessly endeared and gently kisses one of the cotton pads. “You shouldn’t, not if it hurts you.”

Maxime gives him wry look. “That’s very well and good for someone as tall as you are. I can hardly see over the damn thing if I don’t.”

Antoine barks a laugh, surprised by the sudden curse and feeling bubbly from the situation, and quickly strips the other stocking away, getting rid of his own as well, so they can be pressed skin to skin at last.

They’re tangled on the bed together, kissing and embracing. Maximilien’s well-trimmed nails make him shiver and moan when they are raked over his chest, through the sparse brown hair there. He teasingly presses a thigh between Antoine’s legs and kisses his neck.

Antoine’s oft treaded fantasies can’t even hold a flicker to the glory of what it is to be here, holding Maximilien Robespierre in his arms. He wants to stay in this bed for the rest of his existence because he’s found the one thing that can make his blood heat and heart sing like the Republic of France can.

He sucks a deep red mark into Maxime’s shoulder, like a rosette. He kisses his collar bone and thinks about the next time Maxime is up at the tribune, Antoine will be able to picture each kiss when Maxime’s chest heaves with passion of his speeches. He’ll be able to see past the power and pallor and think Maximilien flushed and writhing on his bed. He’ll hear Danton snicker and call him ‘virgin’ and smile, knowing the truth.

Quickly, kissing is becoming more and more passionate, and it becomes more and more exhausting to separate their lips and let themselves become two individuals again, so they don’t. Antoine clasps Maxime’s neck, and Maxime leverages himself up with Antoine’s shoulders and they breath through their noses and exhale into each other.

When they finally must tear apart, Maxime gasps and the world spins around Antoine.

“God,” Maximilien swears, “I need you inside of me.” His voice is high and breathy. Needy. Antoine shudders and nods.

They force themselves up and Antoine flushes, realizing he is quickly edging out of comfortable territory and into the unknown. While he’d thought of it, and he knows the basics… However, before he can think it over too much Maxime sighs and puts a hand to his head, trying to steady himself.

“Can you reach my coat? There’s a hand salve in the pocket, I think that will work.”

Antoine looks at him, stores that information away for later examination and stretches over the sparse floor space to where Maxime hung his coat over the back of Antoine’s chair. He reaches into an interior pocket and finds a small, flat, round tin and passes it over to Maximilien.

He twists it open and the smell of juniper berries assaults Antoine. Maxime runs a finger through it and rubs them together, feeling the texture.

“Oui, this will be fine.” He twists it closed again and places it on the small table next to the bed. His glasses are next and then Maxime strips off his smalls and lays back onto the pillows. He smiles his charmingly coy smile up at Antoine.

Antoine’s eyes are wide, staring down. He wants to stain this image onto his eyelids, so he’ll be able to recall it every time he blinks. Maxime’s body is soaked in silver from the moonlight and his eyes glow in the reflective light, like candles in a window.  

Maxime tilts his head slightly. “Well?”

Antoine realizes he’s be sitting still and silent and fumbles to get his own underclothes off. He drops them off the bed, heedless. As far as he’s concerned right now, there’s no more important moment than this one.

They’re finally naked together and Antoine takes Maxime’s hand to kiss the knuckles. His other hand drops to Maximilien’s thigh. Then he takes a deep breath.

“I’ve never preformed sodomy,” he says in one quick rush, then winces.

Maxime blinks. “Oh. That’s fine Antoine. Hand me the salve, I can take care of it.”

Antoine does not know what to do with this information. He silently passes over the tin and watches Maxime sit up slightly, propped on the pillows. He unscrews the top, dips his fingers into the cream and then parts his thighs slightly.

Antoine’s tongue is stuck to the top of his mouth and his heart is in his throat as Maximilien hand reaches between his legs and carefully slides a single finger into himself. He makes a quiet noise, his lips parting and slowly moves his hand, thrusting in and out of himself.

When writing Organt, Antoine had thought he knew eroticism, knew what was attractive and beguiling and arousing. Oh, how wrong Antoine was. He had not known there was anything as mind-numbingly arousing than watching Maximilien fuck himself with his delicate fingers. Maxime’s eyes are half lidded and when he looks up at Antoine, he smiles shyly, and adds a second finger. A lightning-bolt of shock makes Antoine shiver.

Maxime, he’s _done this before_.

As Antoine’s hands tighten on Maximilien’s knees a rope of jealousy uncurls in his stomach. Who else has seen Maxime like this? One of the other members of the bar in Arras? One of the Rosati? Someone from le Grand?

As Maxime moans and tilts his head back, eyelids fluttering, Antoine thinks is doesn’t really matter who is was because he’ll be the last one to see this. He’d be mad to let go of Maxime now, seeing this rare and precious side of him.

A third finger joins the other two and Maxime bucks his hips slightly, his breathing getting deeper and harsher. Antoine can’t breathe at all, it feels like even the blood has frozen in his veins. If it wasn’t for his cock pressing a hot brand into his belly, throbbing with every heartbeat, he wouldn’t even think he was still living.

“Ah, Antoine, come here. Give me your hand,” Maximilien whispers, eyes clouded over with lust. Antoine holds out his right hand and Maxime rubs the fingers with the salve. Antoine jerks and looks up. Maxime smiles shakily.

“Your turn.”

Maxime removes his hand from between his thighs and guides Antoine down, holding onto his wrist. Antoine swallows as his fingers slide on the slipperiness from the salve before his first finger enters.

_Jesus fucking Christ!_

It’s warm and tight and slick. Antoine groans and flexes his finger up slightly. Maxime gasps and bucks his hips, the hand that’s not still tightly gripping Antoine’s wrist flies up to cover his mouth.

“Ohhh, yes, Antoine. L-like that.”

Antoine could be holding Maximilien’s literal heart right now and it would feel less intimate, because every time he thrusts his hand in, the other man squirms or mewls or reacts in such a way that Antoine is beginning to feel ruined for another sexual encounter for the rest of his life. He works two fingers inside of Maxime and grins when he’s rewarded with a stifled curse.

“You’re f-fingers, they’re incredible, so long and delicate,” Maxime rambles, head lolling back on the pillows. “Ah, ah. Use three, s'il vous plaît!”

Antoine obliges, moving closer. Maximilien hooks his knee over Antoine’s hip, so they’re pressed together tightly. Curious, Antoine takes his oiled fingers and brushes them down the length of Maxime’s cock.

The result is a magnificent show of Maxime arching and chocking back his moan as his cock jerks, drooling pearly beads of slick down the shaft. Antoine’s own is flushed red and dripping with precum, and it’s only his focus on the other man that has prevent him from already spilling all over himself like he’s thirteen. Because otherwise there’s a good chance he’d already be a mess.

Antoine doesn’t know how he’ll make it more than two heartbeats when he’s finally inside Maximilien.

Maxime rears up after he’s recovered, breathing hard and looking wild. He grabs Antoine’s face and kisses him so firmly their teeth click and Antoine comes away with the slight taste of iron on his tongue.

“Fuck me, Antoine,” Maxime orders, holding onto his shoulders. “Right now.”

Antoine can’t argue with that and his tongue seems to be missing.

They line up with each other, Antoine keeping a firm hand on his cock. He’s shaking in both arousal and fear. But Maxime is stretched out on the bed, and breathing steadily, with his legs parted far around Antoine’s body, so there’s plenty of room for Antoine to move forward on his knees, gently arrange himself with Maximilien’s opening, and slowly push in.

Antoine has to hold his breath as he thrusts in. Maxime is tighter, and hotter than anyone he’s ever been with and it’s _destroying_ him.

He whines deep and low in his throat while Maxime arches back, hand clasped over his mouth to muffle his moans. He’s clasping at Antoine’s shoulder, nails digging in. He keeps making tiny gasps, his hips making rocking motions to encourage Antoine deeper into him.

It feels as if it takes forever for Antoine to push all the way in but when he does, he finally allows himself to exhale and the room spins widely as he breathes. On the Bed Maxime’s head has fallen to the side and his eyes are shut. His hand convulsively clutches at the bedding. When Antoine gently touches his shoulder, his eyes flick open and he stares up at him.

“Antoine, mon cher, move please,” Maxime mutters gently, but his hand grips Antoine’s upper arm tightly, and he bucks under him. “Please, just, I _need_ you to move.”

Still breathless, he nods and slowly draws himself out again, nearly all the way before thrusting back in. His heart is racing and if he doesn’t focus on keeping himself at a steady pace Antoine would have already lost his mind in how it feels. Under him Maximilien arches back with a near silent moan.

They find a rhythm and as the night darkens the room, the only sounds that fill Antoine’s universe are heavy panting, the creaking of the wooden bed frame and the gentle rhythmic sound of skin on skin. He’s sweating, still reeking of his travels and covered in road dust, but he wouldn’t trade anything for being here with Maxime who looks up at Antoine with the boundless sea in his eyes and his name falling from his lips in a whispered plea.

However Antoine can’t last in his dreamy aroused state forever and soon, the liquid heat in his stomach is pool at the base of his spine. Every thrust feels like it’s going to pull him over the edge and soon he’s hissing through his teeth, fingers digging into Maxime’s waist as he slows down again, trying to make it last.

As if to confound him Maximilien reaches between their bodies and starts stroking himself. “Non! Ne pas ralentir,” he moans and pushes back against Antoine eagerly. “Ah, ah, ah!” Then he’s arching and _tightening_ around Antoine, who has completely forgotten himself and is fucking as fast as he can. The bed rattles against the wall but the whole of the Assembly could enter his bedroom right now and it wouldn’t be enough to stop Antoine.

He feels, rather than sees Maxime come, because his body tightens to almost painful proportions around Antoine’s cock and a wordless cry falls from his lips before he slams a hand over his mouth and shakes as they’re both splattered in come. Antoine still for a moment before readjusting his grip and thrusting, once, twice, three time and then his climax whites out the world.

There’s a confused period of time where Antoine’s collapsed on top of Maxime, holding onto his shoulders and too dazed to move. His reason seems to have left him entirely, and he buries his face into Maxime’s neck.

There’s a soft laugh from underneath him. “Antoine, can you move? Here, roll over.”

They rearrange themselves on the small bed, Maxime pressed tightly against him. Antoine’s arms go around him, his hand resting on the fragile ribs.

There’s silence except for their breathing for a moment. Maxime looks up at him through his myopic eyes, the green shining in the moonlight. There’s still a red flush on his face and Antoine can see where he marked him on the shoulder. Maxime touches his face, very softly. Antoine smiles at him and they kiss gently, chastely.

It comes out without Antoine thinking at all, his tongue loosened by love-making.

“I love you.”

Maximilien’s breath stutters and his eyes go wide. Antoine smooths his thumb over his high cheekbone. He might as well be honest because as experience has taught him, it’ll be revealed one way or another, when it comes to Maxime.

He doesn’t seem to know how to respond, and Antoine feels a little bit giddy. He’s managed to make Maximilien Robespierre speechless.

“Truly?” He finally manages to get out, his voice hoarse.

Antoine nods. He takes Maxime’s hand and brushes his lips over the back of the fingers.

Maxime smiles, and kisses Antoine, leaving their faces close together.

“Mon ami. I love you too.”

Antoine breathes out and back in. Time expands and in the moments his processes these words, he lives a lifetime.

Night passes overhead. Soon Maximilien will have to get dressed, clothing himself in layers of silk and cotton and his proper wig to go back to the Duplays. Tomorrow the Committee will meet and Antoine will go to the Assembly and to the Jacobins. There’s a war to win and a Republic to build and a whole world of people who would love to see them fail, tyrants who need their false glories and slaves who are chained to walls of the caves. They need Saint-Just and Robespierre.

But now, in this moment, Antoine has Maximilien, made of flesh and blood and they’re in love. Antoine curls his arms around his back and press them together, because there is no force that can separate them.

-FIN.

“True love does not grieve.” –Saint Just, Organt.

 


End file.
